


Nutmeg and Novels

by a_ufo_party



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fitz & Hunter Brotp, Fluff, Regency Era AU, Slow Burn, Some angst, fitz is a baker and jemma is an authoress, jane austen inspired, some minor lancebob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-05 16:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12798591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_ufo_party/pseuds/a_ufo_party
Summary: Despite the grand romance in her novels, and pressure from her mother, authoress Jemma Simmons had no intention of ever falling in love herself. However, this changes one rainy day when she finds herself standing in the cozy bakery of a handsome young man named Leo Fitz. The two soon find themselves entangled in an affair, despite their difference in financial situation and social status. But will the disappointment from her family and prospect of public disgrace break the lovers apart?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooo! Thank you so much for reading! Fair warning: I always have every intention of frequently updating, but rarely follow through. As such, updates for this fic may be every two weeks or more. However, I would never abandon a story, and the outline for this fic is all drawn up, so maybe I'll be diligent this time!  
> Anyway, enjoy!

_ Beatrice Beckett was not the sort of young woman of whom anyone expected anything. While immeasurable clever, her appearance remained rather plain and her manners awkward and unrehearsed. Perhaps an advantageous marriage may have been in her future, had she not decided long ago that romance was as made up a concept as vampires or fairies, only to be enjoyed in indulgent novels and flights of the imagination. _

_ She was the soul child of an older couple who, while certainly not poor, were not as wealthy as they would have liked to be, as is the case with most people. Because of this parental dissatisfaction, Beatrice resigned herself to the reality that one day she would, indeed, be forced to wed. She consoled herself slightly with the notion that she was still rather young and this burden would not befall her for many years. However, when it should, she was determined not to settle until she had found a young man so grand and fantastic that one might suppose he had manifested from the pages of a gothic novel. Only then would she find matrimonial happiness. _

Jemma Simmons paused, her eyes scanning over all that she had written. Although rarely satisfied with her writing, the authoress found it to be serviceable. Perhaps a bit too autobiographical, but that could be changed with the story. So, she carried on.

_ Beatrice’s prejudice against affection was tested, however, the day she met Matthew  _ _ Pembroke _ _. Upon first inspection, the young woman paid him little mind. He was not strikingly handsome, nor did he possess any physical feature which might set him apart from the other men in attendance. However, when the two were introduced… _

_ When the two were introduced… _

Sighing, Jemma sat down her pen. No matter how hard she tried to coax a fantasy into her mind, no image of this invented young man would appear. With a deep breath, she leaned back in her chair and gazed out of the sitting room window. A murky, blue light illuminated the room as rain tapped against the glass. In the distance she could see the silhouette of the trees in their garden, nearly invisible due to the silver, smoke-like fog. She squinted at these shapes, trying to force them into the shadow of a gentleman, twisting the raindrops and mist into a handsome hero, but this tactic also proved fruitless.

“Something troubling you, blossom?” Mr. Simmons asked, barely looking up from his paper as he reclined in the little room’s corner.

Tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, Jemma licked her lips. “I’m...I’m finding this character rather challenging to invent.”

“Oh? And who is this perplexing figure?”

“A gentleman.”

“A gentleman! Well! I would know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t I?” He smiled, eyes twinkling. “Anything in particular that is challenging about this young man?”

Jemma had always been close with her father. It was he that encouraged her to write down her stories. He that helped her publish two books prior to her latest work.

“It is only...I cannot fathom any reason he should be special.”

“Indeed? Well, very few young men are.”

“I am being serious, papa.” She grinned begrudgingly.

“Well, perhaps you ought to take a little break from writing. Take up a sampler or some other womanly task.” He said this with a wry tone, knowing full well that this suggestion would be disregarded.

As expected, Jemma did not acknowledge his comment. “Should he be from a far away land? Or maybe he saves her from a dull conversation-”

“Perhaps, my love, rather than making the gentleman of a different cloth, it should be the heroine's heart that is changed by something.”

Jemma’s eyes widened at the suggestion. “Yes! That is a very clever notion.”

“Thank you, my dear. I have them from time to time. Now, if you don’t mind, I will return to my paper.”

Giving him a grateful smile, she turned to face her desk once more.

_ When the two were introduced… _

Her concentration was broken as quickly as it had resumed. 

It a burst of swishing skirts and clicking heels, her mother, a stately woman whose every motion seemed to omit sound, charged into the room and fell upon the sofa. 

“I have just been to the tea room.” She announced, as though the family had been awaiting this news all day.

“Hm. And how did you find it, my love?” Mr. Simmons asked, without looking up from his paper.

“Dreadful. Do you know what people say about our daughter? A spinster in the making, that’s what! Spoiling matrimony for all of the young women in the neighborhood with her frivolously romantic writings.”

“I am in the room, mother.” Jemma commented, masking the stab of hurt she always felt when her mother spoke of her this way. 

“Good. You should hear this. One must be well acquainted with the way others view them if they wish to be a person of any consequence.” Fanning herself with a book from the side table, she kicked off her shoes. “Please do not tell me that you have been at that desk all day, dear.”

“Alright, I won’t tell you.”

This prompted a chuckle from her father.

Mrs. Simmons, however, was not so amused. “It is as if you want to be a spinster. How are you expected to find a husband while your legs remain glued to that chair?”

“I am sure I cannot tell you that, ma’am.” She spoke coolly, bracing herself for the reprimand that would inevitably follow.

“Insufferable girl. If you are so determined to make our family the laughing stock of this town, you will do it by way of your ill manners in public, rather than your isolation and poisonous novels. Do you understand me? Now, put down that pen and go find some useful employment. Walk to town and browse the shops-”

“Mother, it is raining.”

“And suddenly she cares about her image!”

With a sigh, Jemma rose from her chair and began to stuff her parchment and ink into her satchel. 

“What do you think you’re doing with that?” Mrs. Simmons squinted, gesturing at her bag.

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Jemma did not answer. 

And, pulling her cloak over her shoulders, she strode out of the room, down the hall, and through the front door into the pouring rain.

* * *

 

Leopold Fitz pounded his fist into the bowl of dough, eliciting a satisfying puff of flour.

“I’m telling you, mate. She is everything a woman ought to be.” His friend, Lance Hunter, carried on from his seat beside the kitchen table. “If I hadn’t known better, I would have said she was a goddess. And such a dancer!”

“Mhm. You’ve told me. Several times, actually.” Fitz mumbled, sectioning out the dough into individual loaves. In an hour or so his tiny bakery would be flooded with servants purchasing bread to go with their employers meals, and he had gotten a late start in preparing. Either the customers would be going home with half raw bread, or Hunter was going to have to take a hint and move along.

And as Hunter never was one for hint taking, it appeared it was going to be the former.

“She’s going to be at the ball tomorrow, you know. I cannot wait for you to see her. But don’t get any ideas, my friend. I have already staked claim on Miss Morse.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.” Fitz replied, setting the loaves of bread into the scorching oven, and wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “I’m not going.”

With a dramatic gasp, Hunter’s mouth fell open. “Not going-are you kidding? You’re jesting.” 

Shrugging, Fitz exited the boiling kitchen and went about tidying the foyer.

Hunter soon emerged after him. “Fitz, listen to me. It is the largest event of the season.”

“I know. That’s  _ why  _ I’m not going.” 

“If you don’t attend I may not wish to call you my friend anymore.”

“Aw, that would be a loss, wouldn’t it?” Fitz said sarcastically, arranging the pastries in the rain streaked window.

“I’m serious, mate. Why the bloody hell wouldn’t you go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because this ball is for people of notoriety and I’m a baker-”

“Everyone loves bread!” He retorted, speaking as though this point was extremely compelling.

With a sigh, Fitz turned to his friend. “Listen, Hunter. I appreciate your generosity, but I don’t think you fully understand what it’s like for someone like me to go to these things. People go to balls to make advantageous acquaintances and speak with their equals and superiors. I just...no one wants me there.”

“I want you there. And I think  _ you _ don’t fully understand your situation. You may be a baker, but you are a favorite of Dr. Radcliffe, everyone knows that. And as he and his wife have no children, you’ve as good as inherited. So that makes you a person of consequence. And you’re friend of mine, so that helps your plait as well.”

“How could I forget that?” Fitz grinned, patting his friend on the shoulder as he walked past.

Shaking his head, Hunter pulled on his coat and hat. “Alright, listen, mate. I’ve got to go down the road a ways now and speak with my butcher, but promise me you’ll consider going tomorrow.” 

“I’ll consider it.” Fitz yelled from the kitchen, removing several scones from the oven.

“Very good! See you tomorrow, then!” And with that, the front door opened and closed again with a rattle. 

Finally alone, the baker busied himself in making up a glaze for the buns which sat cooling in the window. 

A drizzle of honey, a smidge of nutmeg, a little water to thin it out. 

There was something so immensely calming about baking. Mixing the ingredients together in such a way as to create a flavor entirely new, while following a set of scientific rules to ensure the bread would be airy and crisp; few things in the world gave him such satisfaction.

Although, when he had first begun to work at his father’s shop, he had loathed the occupation. Perhaps because Alistair Fitz spent the entirety of the day complaining that his son would lose customers in his inability to follow a damned recipe. However, five years ago his father had left without so much as a goodbye, and Fitz found himself altering all of the recipes out of sheer spite. And as it turned out, the people of the town preferred these original confections to the dull loaves and biscuits the tiny shop had once sold.

In fact, his baked goods had become so popular that he had found himself in the favor of an extremely wealthy older couple, the Radcliffes, which set him apart from other shop owners. While certainly not high society, his presence was tolerated in tea rooms and occasionally balls, so long as he knew those in attendance were his superiors.

Rolling up his sleeves, Fitz loaded the freshly glazed buns into a basket and made his way back into the foyer. The rain was picking up outside, turning the passing carriages into shapeless shadows against the curtain of falling water. 

“I ought to set out some towels.” He mumbled to himself as he placed the basket on the shelf which lined the wall. 

As he turned to fetch the aforementioned supply, however, his task was interrupted by the door swinging open. 

In a flurry of rain and cool air entered a cloaked figure. Upon throwing back her hood, the face of the stranger became visible. 

And Fitz recognized her at once:

Jemma Simmons, the authoress. 

While not widely known, she was quite the celebrity amongst local girls who read her novels religiously. Several years ago they had been introduced at one of Dr. Radcliffe’s gatherings. Although the two had barely spoken, Fitz had seen her twice after that across the room at various social events. In both of these instances she had looked rather uncomfortable, clutching a notebook to her breast and hanging back to the outer corners of the room. 

Now the young woman looked uncomfortable again, but in a different sort of way. Her pale skin was flushed, with a pinch of red upon the apples of her cheeks. In her large, expressive eyes there was a disoriented sparkle and her wet hair clung to her face.

For a long moment, the two stared at each other. 

Then, Fitz finally gathered the composure to speak. “Er, good afternoon, miss-”

“I’m so sorry.” She interrupted, eyebrows furrowing.

“Wh-why should you apologize, miss-”

“Simmons. Jemma Simmons.” Walking deeper into the store, she looked around distractedly. “Well, I suppose it is a bit...odd of me to barge into your store without us having been introduced.”

“Em, actually, we-we were. Introduced, I mean.” He fumbled, finding himself rather embarrassed, though he knew not why.

Lifting her eyebrows, the young woman asked, “Oh?”

“Yeah, we, er...it was a few years ago. At Dr. Radcliffe’s ball.” 

She did not seem to recollect the event.

Fitz’s blush deepened. “My name’s Fitz. Leopold Fitz.”

Then, realization dawned in her eyes and a smile softened her features. “Oh, of course, Mr. Fitz! I’m so sorry, my mind is elsewhere this evening.”

“No, s’okay!” He shook his head, crossing his arms. “What brings you to my shop, miss Simmons?”

Biting her lip, she looked around uncertainly. “It’s rather silly.”

“Go on, then.” He grinned, gesturing her to the table and chairs in the corner. 

“I was hoping...would you mind terribly if I stayed here for an hour or so?”

“I don’t mind, so long as you aren’t bothered by the smell of rising bread. Can I ask why, though?” 

As she settled into the wooden chair, she set aside her drenched cloak. “Must you ask?”

Fitz’s face scrunched in confusion. “Er, I suppose not. I only want to know if you’re in any kind of danger.”

“No, no danger. Nothing like that.” She gave a strained smile, waving her hands in a way that Fitz found immensely endearing. 

“Alright, then. Good-”

“It’s only...can you keep a secret?”

Looking down at her wide eyed, desperate expression, Fitz felt his heart flutter uncomfortably. He knew full well that talking to a woman so familiarly after having only been introduced briefly some time ago was improper, but there was something about her; something so magnetic and charming, he found himself weak to logic.

With a deep breath, he sat in the seat across from the young woman. “Miss Simmons, I give you my word.”

Smiling gratefully, she leaned closer to him and whispered, “I am supposed to be out shopping. My mother commanded it. However, I am working on a new novel and I simply do not have the time to pretend I enjoy perusing stores.”

“So...you want to write in here.” He nodded slowly.

“If you’ll allow me.”

Rising from his seat, Fitz held up a finger.

Moments later he returned with a saucer of tea and a scone, still warm from the oven. 

“Take all the time you need, miss Simmons. And if you require anything at all, I will be in the kitchen.” 

As he sat down the offering before her, a touched smile overtook her features. And after taking a small bite from the corner of the pastry, her mouth fell open. 

“That is delicious!”

Fitz beamed. “I’m-I’m glad you like it.”

“What spice is that?” She asked, squinting at the little caramel colored flecks which speckled it’s interior.

“Eh, that would be nutmeg, miss.”

“And honey?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “You’ve an excellent palate.”

“And you’re an excellent baker.” With that, she drew several pieces of parchment and a pen from her satchel.

After giving the lovely authoress a final glance, Fitz returned to the kitchen. Although, upon removing the crusty loaves of rye bread from the oven, he found himself rather distracted. A giddy warmth flooded his chest each time he thought about the woman sitting in his foyer, and a strong desire to speak to her once more burned in his mind. 

But no, that was foolish. She was a customer at his shop, seeking shelter from the rain, that was all. 

This fact did not stop him, however, from stealing glances at her each time he passed the kitchen door. As she wrote, a concentrated, severe expression furrowed her features. Occasionally, he saw her tapping her forehead with the end of her pen, pressing her lips into a thin line. And once, he noticed how her mouth moved as she read her work back to herself.

After over an hour of distracted baking, during which he accomplished very little, Fitz looked into the foyer once more. Only this time, he did not see her.

She must have left already.

An embarrassing stab of regret squeezed his heart. 

Why shouldn’t she leave without saying goodbye? They barely knew each other!

With a sigh, he approached the table, where she had sat, to clean the leftover crumbs and empty teacup. Then, something caught his eye. Laying by the door was a piece of paper.

“She must’ve dropped it.” He muttered to himself as he approached the stray page. Surely enough, elegant handwriting scrawled across the surface, describing a young woman named Beatrice. 

Lifting the parchment to his chest, he tried not to smile as he stared out into the rain muddled streets.

He would need to return this to her. It was only the proper thing to do. 

Perhaps he would go to the ball after all...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! So sorry about the super late update. I honestly don't really have an excuse. Just writers block. However, I've already started on the next chapter, so updates WILL be frequent eventually.  
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading! And enjoy...

_There was something about Matthew_ _Pembroke_ _’s eyes which prompted images of warm toast and sweet smelling tea. Upon first speaking to the young man, Beatrice found herself most unwillingly captivated by his rugged accent and nervous stammering. He possessed an air quite unlike any man she had encountered in the past. Warmth and humility seemed to radiate from his honest smiles and ocean-like eyes, drawing her in with comfortable familiarity. And the honey and nutmeg of the pastry he had offered her left the young woman to wonder; would his lips taste of this intoxicating flavor as well?_

Jemma Simmons blushed as she wrote the last sentence. However, assuring herself that this was only the musings of her character, and not of herself, she carried on.

_Beatrice, being wholly unfamiliar with such feelings, indulged her imagination far more than the average young woman. Like a youth tasting their first champaign, she grew more intoxicated with the fantasy the longer she dwelled on it, and her mind flew swiftly from attraction, to love, to matrimony in a matter of moments._

_However, as is the case with most gluttonous flights of fancy, she felt ashamed the next day. While kind to her, Mr._ _Pembroke had not given her any indication of his attraction. Nor would it have been proper for him to do so. The young man’s position was embarrassingly below her own, and she was not of elevated rank by any means. And so, with determination, she made the decision to freeze any thoughts of Mr. Pembroke’s fresh-baked-bread eyes staring into her own, his husky voice speaking to her alone, and his work-weathered hands escorting her onto the ballroom floor._

_This resolve would be tested, she knew-_

“Jemma! Jemma, are you nearly ready?” Her mother’s voice screeched up the steps, seeping through her bedroom door.

Pulling herself out of the trance-like state which writing always cast upon her, she sat up straight and breathed: “Damn.”

In a frenzy, she proceeded to untangle her hair from the knotted cloth curlers, blindly select a gown from her closet, and splash the (now cold) water in her washbin upon her face.

Moments later, she emerged from her room quite out of breath, but ready for the ball.

* * *

 

Technicolored skirts swirled about the ballroom, giving it the illusion of a windy flower garden. Tall gentlemen in dark apparel dotted the scene like skeleton trees, and the sound of laughter, stomping feet, and clinking glasses flowed in a river-like roar.

Upon joining the party, Fitz began to seek out Miss Simmons. The piece of parchment hung heavily in his pocket, a constant reminder that he was a man on a mission.

However, his task was delayed when he heard the (already intoxicated) voice of his friend calling after him.

“Oi! Look who decided to come! I told you he would, didn’t I Bob?”

A gorgeous young woman held Hunter’s arm, giving him an unimpressed look. “You did. It really is astounding how invited guests tend to show up to balls.”

Fitz stifled a snort. “I’m Leopold Fitz, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure-”

“She’s the one I was telling you about, mate!” Hunter hissed, evidently believing himself to be covert.

“Yeah, I got that.” Fitz hissed back, as the woman’s face grew amused.

With a curtsy, she lifted an eyebrow at Hunter. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Fitz. I’m sure you already know my name.”

“That I do, Miss Morse.”

“So, you came! Can I get you a glass of wine, mate?” Hunter grinned, patting his friend on the back.

“Don’t get excited. I’m only here to make a delivery.”

“I don’t see any bread.”

“Not that kind of delivery. Miss Simmons was in my shop last night and she left behind some parchment, so I thought that-”

He was interrupted by Hunter slowly clapping.

Eyebrows furrowing, he crossed his arms. “What?”

“Well done, my friend. You have made your reason for being here incredibly obvious.”

“Yeah, I’m making a delivery.”

“Uhuh.”

“I do not understand you-”

“Mate, you came all the way here, went through the trouble of shaving and selecting your best clothes-”

“-these aren’t my best clothes.”

“-just to return this girl a piece of paper she dropped.”

“Yes? And?”

Hunter and Miss Morse exchanged knowing smirks.

Suddenly realizing their insinuation, Fitz’s eyes grew wide. He took a step closer to his friend and hissed, “Now, you need to hush.”

The other man carried on, “Miss Simmons is an excellent choice, wouldn’t you say, Bob?”

“In all sincerity, Mr. Fitz,” Bobbi elbowed Hunter with a pointed look, “Jemma _is_ a wonderful girl. A little odd, but I like her-”

“Fitzy doesn't mind odd. He’s not the most normal bloke, himself. Have you heard him talk about bread? It’s like he’s going to marry a bloody baguette.”

“Well, sounds like you two would make for a lovely couple-”

“You’re both acting as though I’ve proposed to her, bloody hell!” Fitz groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Despite what you might think, I am only here to return her belonging to her. Now, if you two could keep your voices down, that would be lovely.”

“You cannot be quiet about true love, mate!” Hunter grinned.

“You are insufferable, you know that?”

“Insufferably clever, you mean.”

“I have never meant that-”

“Oh, mate! There she is!” Hunter suddenly shouted, pointing at a silhouette passing the large fireplace.

Sure enough, it was Miss Simmons. She was dressed in a lavender gown, with her hair tied up, except for several curling stands framing her face. Pearls dotted her bun and a pinch of pink stood out on her pale cheeks.

She looked lovely.

“Well, what are you waiting for, Fitz? Go get her.” Miss Morse whispered, winking at him.

“You two make quite the pair, you know that?” Fitz glared.

And with that, he turned and stalked away, face embarrassingly red.

* * *

 

“Miss Simmons.”

The Scotsman's voice took Jemma by surprise. She had been standing (hiding) behind a large pillar, out of view of the main party. After dancing three dances with a terribly dull young man by the name of Milton, she had retreated from his presence, in hopes of preventing another unfortunate interaction. And now she had found the perfect manner of avoidance! Or rather, he had found her. Milton was not nearly confident enough to approach her when she spoke to another young man.

Another, significantly more handsome, young man, she added silently with a blush.

Turning, she found Mr. Fitz staring at her, shifting uncomfortably on the balls of his feet.

“Oh, Mr. Fitz! What a pleasant-”

“I’ve come to return to you...um, that is to say, I’m here to-” His words came out in an endearing stream of stutters, before he finally reached into his pocket and produced a slip of paper.

“Here.” He sighed, looking thoroughly humiliated.

Suppressing a larger smile, Jemma took the object he offered her: a single sheet of paper.

And on it, the plans for her novel.

She gasped. “Oh, Mr. Fitz! I had not even realized this was missing. Thank you, a thousand times!”

“Oh,” his eyes grew wide. “Er, yeah. ‘Course. Seemed important, so I thought I’d best get it to you, seeing as you’re a famous author and all.”

Famous author.

He had called her a famous author.

It made her smile grow ever larger. “Well, I am indebted to you, Mr. Fitz.”

“Psh.” He shrugged, crossing his arms awkwardly. “It’s nothing, really-”

“No, you have returned to me the plan for my new novel! How can I repay you?”

Despite feeling a great deal of gratitude towards the young man, and enjoying his presence perhaps a little too much, she did not actually plan of repaying him. She only asked in an attempt at lengthening their conversation.

“Really, Miss Simmons, I should be going-”

“Nonsense!” she cut him off, taking a step closer.

He swallowed visibly.

“Mr. Fitz, perhaps a dance could serve as my repayment?”

The suggestion had merely been another step in her filibustering of the ball, she had never expected him to accept. However, after the words had slipped from her lips, she instantly realized just how much she would enjoy stepping up with him. Feeling his arms around her waist, hearing his voice against her ear...

“That’s very kind of you, Miss Simmons, but I don’t think…” He trailed off, suddenly looking rather ashamed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Her heart fell. “Why not?”

“Well, I’m not exactly...I’m not the sort a young lady like you should be speaking to, much less dancing with.”

Oh.

Biting her lip, she glanced at the crowded dance floor, then back at the young man before her several times.

There was something about his eyes, a familiar warmth, which made her feel as if she had known him always, and desired to keep knowing him longer still.

So, with a deep breath, Jemma found herself whispering to him a frantic plea. “Mr. Fitz, I must confess something to you. You find me standing behind this pillar because I am trying to avoid a rather dull gentleman. However, now that you are here, the prospects of the evening are considerably brightened. If you will not dance with me, I cannot blame you. However,” as she spoke, she watched his eyes grow conflicted, “would you condescend to take a turn with me about the balcony? Surely no one would object to you helping a young woman who needed some air.”

The last words were spoken with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes.

For a long moment, the man was silent, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. However, before Jemma descended into a panic that she had been too forward, he spoke.

“Miss Simmons, I would be happy to.”

* * *

 A cloudless sky revealed thousands of stars which shimmered like pinholes in a grand, velvet curtain. The full moon reflected in the massive lake which shadowed the manor, sending lacy webs of light twinkling on its surface.

From the balcony, one could see the full effect of the landscaping, from the carefully shaped gardens, to the rolling hills, and pristine stables.

And this was what Fitz tried to focus on, rather than the beautiful young woman who held his arm.

“I really must thank you again, Mr. Fitz. You have rescued me from a truly odious evening.” Miss Simmons prattled once more as the two strolled.

He wanted to assure her that if anyone should be saying thank you, it should be him, but his tongue seemed determined to block any charming remarks.

Not that he was trying to charm her!

That would have been highly inappropriate.

“Mr. Fitz?” She asked suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.

“Hm...yes?” He started, glancing at her.

“Did you, um...happen to read the page which you returned to me?”

Oh no.

She assumed he had intruded in her private writing.

“No!” The young man assured her, shaking his head. “Well, that’s to say, I read the first several lines. But, after I saw that it was in your hand, I-”

“It’s alright, Mr. Fitz.”

She was smiling.

Thank God.

“I only asked because I find myself...rather struggling with it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He offered limply.

“Yes, well, I was going to ask if you had any advice to offer. But, seeing as you are a perfect gentleman, I suppose that is a lost cause.”

“I’m not a perfect gentleman-” he started. However, observing the smirk on her face, he quickly let his own lips soften into a smile. “Ah. You’re teasing me.”

“Indeed.” She beamed.

As the two shared a kindred grin, an idea dawned in Fitz’s head.

“Well, you know, Miss Simmons. If you have your notebook with you here...you could read to me what you have? I mean, if you really want help, that is.”

“You would do that?” Jemma asked, tone suddenly brittle.

It made Fitz wonder if anyone had ever shown an interest in her writing. Well, besides her young, female admirers.

“Yeah, ‘course.” He nodded, as the two slowed to a stop. “I’d love to.”

After seating herself on the bench by the balcony wall, she paused briefly. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely!” He replied with enthusiasm, perching beside her.

“Well, alright!” Eyes brightening, she drew her notebook from her satchel.

And, with a final, uncertain glance at Fitz, she started to read.

* * *

 After nearly ten minutes, filled only with the authoress’ nervous narration and the sound of crickets chirping in the gardens, she read the final line (she had, of course, excluded the bit about the pastry. It seemed a tad too obvious)

And Mr. Fitz began to applaud.

“Oh, stop it!” She gasped, hoping her delight at the reception was not too obvious.

“Miss Simmons, that was masterifully written.”

“Oh, do be quiet.” She waved him off, closing the notebook.

“I shall not!” Grinning, he moved slightly closer to her and poked a finger onto the parchment. “Not until you admit that this is damn good.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Mr. Fitz, it is impolite to curse before a lady.”

“I know you’re teasing. That won’t work one me now. I know you too well, Miss Simmons,” he replied proudly.

It made her chest burn in a good sort of way.

Fueled by this sensation, she nodded. “Fine, you are right. It’s damn good.”

“There you go! You have real talent. The way you describe Beatrice’s apprehension to enter into relationship seemed so real!”

“Well, perhaps it is...a bit autobiographical.” She admitted without thinking.

After realizing her words, she blushed furiously. A young lady discussing romantic endeavors with a gentleman she barely knew? It was positively scandalous!

However, Mr. Fitz did not seem to think so. In fact, when the red-faced woman looked up from her lap, he was staring back with an almost empathetic expression.

“Then how...if you don’t mind me asking, how is it you have such a talent for depicting the romantic?” He asked, an air of genuine interest in his tone.

“Well, I suppose I have simply observed people over the years. And if I see a flaw in a relationship that the parties included may be blind to, I fix it in one of my novels.” She paused. “It sounds rather presumptuous, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all!” He shook his head fervently.

A beat passed.

Then, he grinned. “If it is autobiographical-”

“Only a little!”

“-and you are Beatrice-”

“-Mr Fitz, please!”

“-then does that mean there is a Mr. Pembroke?”

Jemma should have laughed off the comment and assured him that the novel was not so similar to her life.

But, she did not.

She could not.

“There may be.” She replied softly, eyes fixing to him magnetically.

And, for a moment, time stood still. No longer were the crickets chirping, nor the moon shining. A silvery thread had woven the pair into a spell, which seemed to grow tighter the closer they leaned.

And for a moment, a truly absurd notion crept into Jemma’s mind.

Was he...going to kiss her?

“Jemma Anne Simmons!” The shrill voice of her mother sliced through the air, pulling the two violently from their enchantment.

Standing quickly, Jemma moved as far from Fitz as the limited balcony space would allow. “I-I ought to go-”

“-yeah, that’s your...your name being called.” He nodded, pressing his lips together.

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, best be off, then.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

Then, in unison, they blurted out goodbyes, before going their separate ways.

The entire carriage ride home, Jemma was lectured by her mother for disappearing from the ball. She had not danced with more than two eligible young men the whole evening! What had she been doing?

However, she barely heard a word.

Because, suddenly, she truly understood what changed the heroines heart towards romance:

And that was a pair of eyes, blue like the ocean, and warm like freshly baked bread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked that! If you did, reviews are always super appreciated. Have a great day! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked that! If you did, reviews always make my day <3 Thank you so much for reading!


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